Against the Algorithm

Chapter 17: Fractures and Shifts

She blinked at it.

"...Isn't this yours?"

"Yes."

She hesitated.

He didn't push.

Then—her hands reached out, tentative fingers wrapping around the hoodie's edge, pulling it into her lap like armor. "...Thank you."

His knuckles flexed once on the steering wheel. Then he pulled away from the curb—slow, steady, constant. She didn't say anything else. She didn't need to. She was still here and that was enough.

By the time they pulled into the gated drive leading toward the base, the rain had settled into a light mist, soft and clinging to the air, more fog than storm now. The world looked blurred beyond the windshield, like the edges had been softened on purpose. The car came to a smooth stop.

Yao didn't say anything. She didn't need to. She uncurled herself slowly from the passenger seat, one hand still gripping the borrowed hoodie like a shield. When she stepped out into the chilled damp, she tugged it on properly—oversized, black, warm—and without looking at him, she murmured, "Thank you for the ride."

He didn't respond right away. Just watched as she straightened, her shoulders small beneath the weight of exhaustion she wasn't voicing. She closed the door gently. And walked toward the base. Not fast. Not slow. Just... forward. Inside, the base was dim and quiet—training room lights muted, the television casting a soft glow against the lounge wall, half the team draped across furniture in varying states of distraction.

Lao Mao was sprawled on the lower couch, one leg up, head tilted slightly as he scrolled through something on his phone.

Da Bing sat in the middle of the open space—completely still.

His thick, silver-and-gray-striped body was squared like a statue, tail wrapped neatly around his front paws. His blue eyes were narrowed and locked directly on Lao Mao.

He did not move.

He did not blink.

Lao Mao didn't dare shift.

The second Yao walked through the entrance, Da Bing's ears flicked. And the moment her soft voice floated into the room, low and worn— "Da Bing, come."

—he turned.

Smooth. Silent. Immediate.

The great cat moved like a shadow drawn toward light, padding across the wooden floor with regal grace before brushing past Lao Mao's foot with pointed disdain. Lao Mao visibly exhaled the breath he'd been holding.

"Thank god," he muttered under it.

Yao didn't pause, didn't explain. Her footsteps carried straight past the main living room, up the personal staircase that led to her loft apartment above the base.

The others watched, some lifting their heads slightly, sensing something in the air—something heavier than usual.

Pang, halfway through chewing, furrowed his brows.

Yue straightened slightly on the armrest of the couch, mouth half-open as if to say something before he thought better of it.

"She okay?" Lao K murmured from the back.

Sicheng, stepping in behind her and pausing at the base of the stairs, didn't answer right away. His amber eyes trailed the way she climbed, hoodie sleeves half-draped over her hands, silver hair brushing the edge of her damp coat as Da Bing silently followed behind her, ever her silent guardian.